


In Siberia

by Acromania



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-16 03:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12334425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acromania/pseuds/Acromania
Summary: Meetings in a corner of the world no one would decide to visit on their own lead to unforseen situations. Maybe destiny had a hand in it. // DEE Prompt Day 4, Hermione / Antonin // Slightly AU and a two-shot





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello lovely people. So I stumbled upon a prompt in one of the most awesome groups on Facebook. The Death Eater Express. The admins post prompts - I think at least - every day leading up to Halloween.
> 
> One of the prompts set the following words:
> 
> "Antonin Dolohov, Pumpkins, Hermione Granger, "You can't live off whiskey and candy" - oh and guys, I really really took to that. I wanted to write a Antonin / Hermione fic for so long and finally the muse was triggered and didn't leave until my fingers were bleeding.
> 
> So I proudly present you my two-shot: In Siberia.
> 
> #betalove: A huge thank you to VinoAmore and kabg01. For their support, encouraging words and honesty.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

"Something wicked this way comes" - William Shakespeare

\------

She pulled her hood further down into her face. The snowflakes weren’t pretty stars falling down covering the landscape with a light sheen of white. No, out here it slowly and surely developed into a snowstorm, burying everything under it. 

The wind bit at her clothes, pulling her cloak hard and making it even harder to move forward through the thick snow already covering the ground. She cursed inwardly. They should have been back hours ago. It was her own curiosity that maybe could get them both killed. 

She should have listened to Dean, she thought to herself while fighting against the howling wind. He told her more than once that they needed to move, leave the cave no matter how interesting it was. He told her he had a bad feeling about it. But she brushed it off as his worry for his husband. She regretted not listening. They triggered a curse when they entered another chamber carved deep into the stone and needed to fight their way back out. Both of their magic was depleted dangerously and apparating brought them both to their limits. Not to speak about it working properly. They reappeared far away from their original destination. 

Thank Godric we didn’t get splinched, she thought, angry with herself. She shook her head. These thoughts would lead her nowhere and she needed to focus on getting them both back save. She would never forgive herself if something happened to her partner. Fastening her scarf around the lower part of her face again, she braced herself against the wind. 

“We should probably prepare for a few days without electricity.” Dean yelled from in front of her. He was right. There solar panels wouldn’t work. Not in this storm.

“And probably without contact to the others.” He added, his voice carried away by a howl in the wind. Both froze. Dean looked back, the storm pushed away his own hood and exposed his face and wide eyes. Blood was still clinging to his cheek. Without a second thought he grabbed her hand and started to pull her forward. She stumbled but grit her teeth and hurried to catch up to him. Her heart was beating fast in her chest, thundering in her ears and accompanying the blood rushing through her veins like a wild stream.

Fear clung to her back, made her slower and her muscles ready to freeze in panic. She tried to breath through it, conjuring images in her mind that always helped make her calm. Dean threw her a look she knew all too well. He didn’t need to see her whole face to gauge her emotions. She could feel his as well by just extending her senses. 

Soon after leaving the country - running from death and torture - they found that their magic cores were easily attuned to one another. It needed practice and a lot of researching in books some would call gibberish. But they succeeded. It meant just dipping into the outer shield - the added barrier every witch and wizard possessed - told them enough about inner turmoil and upheaval. About how the other felt and how much energy was left. It saved their heads more than once.

“Just a bit. You can do it.” He yelled when she stumbled again because of her fatigue. His boots sank deep into the snow because of his huge build and accompanying weight. She on the other hand was light footed, the charms weaved into her boots helping her run through even the softest of snow without much effort. They didn’t help her now, though. Not when her muscles were already shaking from her fight with curses too old and complex traps.

Another howl - this time the storm itself - tore through them, made their backs go straight in fear. The snow wasn’t snow anymore but ice crystals burning on any exposed skin. It felt like pins and needles piercing through the bit of warmth they both managed to hold with a few spells placed upon them. She felt Dean shiver, his hand clasping painfully around hers.

They soon saw their little huts appearing in the distance, the windows gaping holes in the dark wood. Hope coursed through their veins as they breathed a sigh of relief. They had already lost too many people dear to their hearts - to the weather, to illness, to attacks. At least in this storm both of them could be sure that there wouldn’t be another tracker finding them. 

She looked up again, burning the picture of the dark huts in the snowstorm into her mind. With all her might she willed herself to not break down, to not let her protesting muscles deter her and Dean anymore than she probably already had. She was sure he would have been able to reach their safe haven in less than five minutes. Suddenly she slipped on a hidden patch of ice, crashing hard onto the ground and pulling Dean with her. 

A sharp pain exploded in her wrist and on her cheek, dark droplets of blood appearing in the snow when her vision slowly cleared. She cursed under her breath, brushed away the blood with an annoyed gesture. Transferring a bit of magic into her fingertips she closed the cut as good as possible. Looking around she hurriedly crawled over to her partner, his face pressed into the snow. Fear clawed at her heart.

“Dean?!” She yelled, using his fur coat to pull herself above him in the hope not to slip and crush him. She hissed when she put too much pressure onto her wrist. He coughed roughly and turned around.

“I’m alright. I…” He was interrupted, his raspy voice vanishing into the wind when another howl - far closer than both expected - pierced the air. They both scrambled upward, looking around and trying to see in the impenetrable whiteness around them. Their backs were against each other, wands drawn. In quick succession she cast spell after spell over them, suppressing her own shudder but feeling his on her back through their thick clothes. Stars danced in front of her eyes.

“We need to get back to the huts. Fast.” Dean finally exclaimed. She was aware of the fear making his smooth tones deeper, rustier. He only took two steps when he hissed. 

“My ankle. I can’t… fuck!” He cursed, kneeling down. She joined him, pointing her wand at his limb.

“It isn’t broken, just sprained. I can’t heal it…” Self-loathing and anger clouded her voice. She shouldn’t be so naive, but she felt disappointed that magic couldn’t fix everything - supposedly a lesson she learned a long time ago. 

Shaking her head and gritting her teeth she tried to think of something else. An image from so long ago it barely felt real appeared in the front of her mind - the summer camp’s first aid course. She learned how to at least help in this situation. With a silent spell she summoned two thick twigs. Impatiently she pushed his hands aside. She was sufficient in both silent and wandless magic now but she still needed to see what she was doing. A swish with her hand later thick gauze secured the twigs and in advance his ankle. With a wave she added a numbing charm. Nodding once, she took a quick look around, both fearful and angry for letting her guard down. 

When she saw no one, she determinedly pulled his arm around her shoulders and stood up. He towered her by nearly two heads, but she felt him lean down onto her and marched onward. The wind - even if it seemed impossible - had picked up even more and made their path to their huts even trickier. 

Sooner than expected they reached their huts, the wind not quieting down but getting stronger by the minute. Their outer clothes were soaked through because of their heating charms and the moisture slowly made its way into the second and third layer. They had to hurry otherwise a cold was inevitable. Deadly in this country.

“I hate to leave you alone…” Dean rasped, looking to her in fear. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown even wider and making his eyes appear black.

“Don’t worry. You take care of Seamus and I’ll see you as soon as the storm eases up. Let him take a look at your ankle as well. Maybe you need some salve.” She forced a smile on her face, a billion reasons and one entering her mind why she couldn’t stay with the two of them. He kept her with him for only a few seconds, then nodded grimly.

“OK. Send your patronus if something is wrong, ok?” She nodded along, already pulling away and hoping to reach her own hut soon enough.

“Hermione!” He pressed even though she was already a few paces away.

“I promise. Now I really need to get going.” She yelled above the storm and without a look back vanished into the white. 

When she reached her hut - home she called it for the last three years - she closed her eyes and tried to center herself against the loud storm and her own feelings of cold and fear. After vanishing her warm gloves she pressed her hands against the wood of her front door. The magic hummed through it, a steady flow of energy. With fierce determination she started to pull her magic into a single point in her mind, formed it into runes and formulas. Under her breath, a swell of words no one but she could understand flew from her mouth. It wasn’t a joke when Dean once said that her place was more secure than even Gringotts and Hogwarts combined. A sudden lessen of the pressure on her mind made her aware that she succeeded. 

Stumbling into her hut, she fell to her knees, breath quick and hands clutching the rug. With the last of her strength she crawled forward. When she was far enough into her small haven, she used one of her booted feet to close the door with a resounding crash. Her wards, pulling on her already massively depleted magic, was the last thing she felt before everything went dark.

\------

Hermione awoke, still clad in her moist clothes the next morning. The howling wind told her that the storm hadn’t eased up and instead seemed to be more fierce than it was yesterday. With a shake of her head she tried to clear away the fog that seemed to cling to her thoughts - something she loathed and because of that made sure to never really deplete her magic again if possible. It had killed people. 

Shying away from that thought she slowly pulled herself up, resting for a while on her knees until the light-headedness morphed into a dull pounding headache. First things first, she thought and started to undress herself in the middle of her living room. When her clothes were gone she waved her hand, testing her own strength with a simple summoning spell. A bit slowly but still surely her bathrobe appeared. It was a thick, woolen cloak that would keep her warm until the heating charms and fire chased away the last coldness penetrating her hut. 

Happy with her first try of magic after blacking out, she pulled her wand out of her recently discarded clothes. Working magic with a wand was much simpler because there was an outlet to guide the energy from her core. She wouldn’t waste too much of it just concentrating it into a spell. In that sense, magic was like energy the way muggles described it. It was never really gone, just changed. From kinetic to thermal and so on. Hermione felt comfortable that something of her old world was still applicable into her “new” world. Though new didn’t cut it. 

New would mean she was still twelve and in Hogwarts. With Harry and Ron. But she wasn’t and they weren’t. Instead she was in Godric knows where and Harry and Ron… they were dead.

Sighing, she pushed away these thoughts and cynically thought that maybe Harry would have mastered Occlumency if he had just the right motivator. Seeing your loved ones die was enough for her.

Her wand vibrated suddenly in her hand and made her aware that a pending floo call was waiting for her. Securing her robe around her, she casted a few warming charms and hastily made her way over to the small fireplace. Activating it, it burst into green flames, a sound like a cough accompanying it.

“Hermione!” Dean shouted, his face too pale to her liking.

“Finally! What happened to you! I was so fucking worried! What were you thinking not giving me a heads up that everything’s ok!” His exclamations overwhelmed her for a minute. She shook her head and opened her hands to placate him.

“Dean… calm down. I’m fine. I just…” She waved her hand, unsure what to say to not make him worry even more than he already seemed to be. The frown entering his features was openly visible even through the faulty floo connection.

“You passed out, didn’t you?” Her silence was enough of an answer, his sigh unnaturally loud in her ears.

“I told you…” He started, annoyance creeping into his tone. Hermione waved her hands. It was a sign of her strength already returning that the spell worked and the young man fell silent.

“Don’t you reprimand me. It was necessary otherwise we both would be ice cubes now.” Irony was dripping from her words and Dean flinched. Hermione saw his face fall and frowned herself. Kneeling down to better see him, she leaned a bit forward.

“Dean? What is it?” Her voice was soft now, less aggressive and for the moment she could ignore the building pain in her head.

“Seamus.” Dean’s voice suddenly was clogged with emotions for his husband. Worry clawed at Hermione’s heart.

“Tell me.” She commanded, tension making her shoulders cramp.

“He gets worst every minute. I don’t think he’ll make it without outside help.” Dean sounded defeated even through the crackling of their fire connection. Hermione bit her lip, hard.

“Shall I come over… it’s just a few minutes away.” She suggested without a second thought even though she wasn’t sure she could be of much help at the moment. Her magic was still recovering and upholding her wards wasn’t helping either. He shook his head even before she finished her sentence.

“No, you can’t. There are wolves outside. I saw them only a few minutes ago. They’re just waiting for an opportunity like this. I think Greyback has something to do with it…” Greyback. Hermione hissed. If Greyback got his paws on these wolves there was nothing natural left in them. No fear for fire, a surprising immunity to magic as well. She still tried to find a logical explanation how that was even possible but so far her researching skills and self-taught arithmancy left her with nothing.

“What can we do?” She finally asked, her voice low while her thoughts ran a mile a second.

“I think I need to get him to Poppy.” He answered. Hermione knew she didn’t need to tell him how dangerous it was. Their floo connection was faulty at best and using it to travel… he really had to be desperate.

“Do you think there is anything else we can do? Potions I could brew or magic transition? Or…” Dean’s shaking head let her fall silent.

“We already tried, honey. I don’t think there is any other way. Curse all those bastards.” His tone became even darker, hate and anger apart from worry clouding it even more. The last attack had cost them too much. Hermione felt a palpable fear creeping up her back, clawing into her skin and bones. She shivered.

“I trust you, Dean. If that’s the only thing we can do…” 

“It is.” He determinedly said with no room for further discussions. The witch knew that time was running out, tasted it in the air. In anger one of her fists connected hard with the stone floor. She hated feeling helpless. The flames didn’t hide Dean’s face becoming soft.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mione. Please, don’t do this.” He muttered. His eyes told her that he wanted to envelop her in his long arms, calm her down. Hermione stayed silent and did blame herself. That was just her nature. She always tried her hardest, wanted to be the strongest and the most intelligent. There was nothing a bit of research couldn’t fix. But in this instance - and she recalled in too many others as well - her intelligence failed her. Books failed her. She had only herself to blame.

“I’ll be gone for three days, I think. I don’t know if I can contact you…” Fear entered his face, strong and undiluted. 

“Don’t worry. You’re the one always saying I live in Fort Knox.” She tried for humor but the forced chuckled made them both wince. 

“They won’t get to me. Greyback may have sent the wolves but no Death Eater will be out there now. By the looks of it the storm will hold for a bit longer. Five days, I would say.” She mused, tried to infuse her voice with calmness and with strength. Both of which she didn’t really feel. Dean seemed to second guess his plan, pulled into two directions. To protect Hermione or his husband. It may seem simple to anyone outside of their bond but it wasn’t. Not for someone as trustworthy and loyal as him.

“Dean, look at me.” Hermione finally mumbled. She cleared her throat and fixed his eyes with her own whiskey colored ones.

“You need to save him. We can’t lose him. You can’t lose him. Do you understand?” He nodded reluctantly to that and Hermione suppressed the relief starting to show on her face.

“Besides…” She cynically began, but needed to start anew because her own emotions overpowered her bravado.

“Besides, it’s Halloween soon and I have everything I could ever wish for.” Dean chuckled and decided to ignore that both of them knew that she didn’t. That she wouldn’t because her best friends were dead.

“Hm… I see.” He mumbled and threw a look behind himself, probably to look to Seamus.

“I have to go.” Dean said through thin-pursed lips. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth a second later, though. Hermione guessed that he wanted to leave her with a smile and not the foreboding both of them felt pulsing through their bodies.

“Can you promise me something?” He asked and Hermione nodded eagerly. 

“Promise me that you remember in the next few days that you can’t live off whiskey and candy. You have to look out for yourself for me.” Hermione chuckled softly, her eyes suddenly spilling over with tears. 

“I promise.” She brokenly answered and suddenly the hearth went cold.

\------

He coughed. The sound was wet in his ears and without ever enjoying the medical branch of magic he knew that his condition was declining. And fast. He shouldn’t be surprised about that because the storm raging around him, the constant battle with his magical core to just hold out a bit longer and his condition at the start of his journey were all doing their part to make him more sick. He was surprised, though. 

Maybe because of his upbringing. You weren’t told your whole life that your blood made you special and invincible without it leaving you behind feeling just that. A cold - something only muggles and half-breeds and weak people got - took him by surprise. 

He tried to argue with himself that being tortured and then spit out into a snowstorm of Siberia would weaken any man - wizard or not. The teachings ingrained into his brain, though, made him second guess his logical approach.

Not that he was sure that he could depend on his mind these days. Azkaban, the Cruciatus and an illness he tried to hide from any of his brethren had played a trick on him and his senses. He couldn’t explain away voices he heard awake and asleep, shadows fluttering just at the corner of his vision or even the constant urge he felt to just go searching with tiredness or too much alcohol. It all should mean he was going insane, or was already there. But wouldn’t a mentally unstable man be unable to recognize insanity? 

Shaking his head, he pushed away his philosophical thoughts. Other dangers were more important to concentrate on now. He couldn’t let the feverish ramblings of his mind get the better of him. 

He braced himself against the storm again, wrapping the flimsy cloak they left him with more tiredly around him and with much difficulty spoke another heating spell onto his person. It wouldn’t stay for long but maybe long enough to reach the settlement he knew was nearby. 

His locating charms told him as much at least. And wouldn’t it be just ironical for him to stumble across Muggles - or even Muggleborns - out here, defenseless and ill as he was? It would display his former lord’s humor to perfection. If anyone would call it humor that is. Most of his brethren called it insanity at its finest but were in too deep to really do something about it. They had searched for ways to get rid of the abomination, though. Just in case they whispered in dark corridors just before vanishing into the night.

A howl not too far in the distance made him stop short. He cursed in his mother tongue. A second later he tried to calm his wild beating heart. Just because there were wolves around didn’t mean that they had anything to do with the Lord’s pet. 

He stumbled forward again, his boots dragging in the deep snow. A while ago - he couldn’t measure time in the white nothingness - he stopped feeling the cold. It should have elated him. Instead it made him more afraid. Growing up in climates like this taught him early on that losing the feeling for the cold was a sure sign that the body would give in soon. Obmoroschjene his grandfather had called it and showed off stumps on his hands and feet where the healer had to amputate necrotic tissue to stop blood poisoning and inevitable death and couldn’t safe fingers or toes.

As a child he was deeply fascinated and at the same time disgusted. It taught him to be on his guard in these temperatures, though. That knowledge and his own common sense made him aware that he had to get out of this cold. Find shelter in a cave maybe. And as soon as possible.

\------

The first sneeze surprised her two hours later. Cursing she felt her forehead and with fear discovered that she had a slight fever. A wand-wave later confirmed her apprehension. Just what she needed. 

It wasn’t like she couldn’t cope with a cold. She was a grown ass woman as Seamus liked to point out, but in this weather with only a few supplies that would last her two weeks and no one to contact if bad came to worst, she couldn’t suppress a foreboding feeling overwhelming her.

There wasn’t a potion she could take or an incense she could light that would help her with the symptoms because even though magic was nearly endless it had its shortcomings. One being that curing a cold caused by ever-changing viruses was as impossible for witches and wizards as it was for muggles. 

She theorized in her free time that maybe the viruses were more dangerous because they could infiltrate the magic of the witch or wizard and in that way assimilate the structure and feel of it. So casting a counter spell or healing it would mean acting against the magic of the ill witch or wizard. A stupid idea because the by effects could kill not only the healer but the patient as well.

Hermione sighed. True, she had worse. Far worse. A deep wound inflicted by Antonin Dolohov in her fifth year and a scar to show for the number he did on her. Scars on her knuckles because a slicing curse on one of her escapes nearly cut off her fingers. They just stayed with her because her sinews were keeping them connected to the rest of her limb. Or that one time in Greece when a Hydra stood between her and her escape route. It bit a part of her calve off. Thank Godric for Madam Pomfrey who could restore it to nearly perfect capacities.

So the cold wasn’t what made her afraid. It was the impact on her magic that made her nervous. It wouldn’t be gone or be depleted like massive spellwork was known to do. Instead it would make her magic fluctuate. For her wards to work properly a steady stream of magic was necessary though. 

Chewing her lip she pulled the tea bag out of the pot and with one of her oven mitts on her right hand took it to her sofa and placed it on the coffee table. She pulled the thick blanket from the backrest, building herself a comfortable and most importantly warm nest. Her thoughts circled around. Maybe the cold wouldn’t be too bad. Living in this latitude did wonders to her immune system and a bit of sneezing and coughing wouldn’t have that much of an impact on her magic… would it?

Frustrated she pulled her long curls into a braid at the back of her head. The elastic got caught in the bandage she wrapped earlier around her sprained wrist. Growling she finally got it free. 

But what if her magic was fluctuated by the cold enough to disturb the stream? Which wards would hold and which wouldn’t? She wasn’t stupid enough to just dismiss the idea that the wolves she heard howling and scratching and snarling would try to enter her cabin. Especially if they were influenced by Greyback. The witch knew that the werewolf was clever, though most oversaw that because of his bloodlust. She only needed to show the slightest weakness and they would be inside and overwhelm her probably with sheer numbers. 

Hermione weight her head from one side to the other. She couldn’t take the risk. Not if she was going to get more ill. Caution was something she learned over time. That and to be humble and realistic about her own achievements and talents. 

A wand wave later a heavy tome laid in her lap, the pages already flipping to the one page she would need to calculate the risks. McGonagall once told her that a brilliant witch like her should write down what she developed - not that Hermione ever failed to write down what she knew. But experimenting with charms and spells, with runes and arithmancy was a completely different area. It depended on logical approach, balanced and explored magic and a thirst for the impossible. 

That’s why Hermione found her warding system written down in this book. No one else could read or access it - Dean told her all the curses she put on it were a credit to her overachieving nature because they were alone most of the time. But again, better be safe than sorry wasn’t just a nice sounding phrase. It had merit. 

Hermione took a sip of her tea, smacking her lips together when she burned them slightly. Her free hand was gliding down all the complex formulas, the binding circles and numbers along with the runes forming a beautiful string of magic. She allowed herself to feel proud for a few seconds.

Then she found the abstract wards. The first ones were basic. Muggle-repelling, anti-apparating and wrong-locating spells stood next to weather-safe and disorientating charms. The last one Dean came up with. He said that though not all members of the magical community world wide were supporters of the new regime in Great Britain they should probably stay away from foreign witches and wizards as best as they could. They would be in danger knowing about the first three people on the most-wanted list. In fact, the charm was pretty simple. It worked just like a Muggle-repelling spell but was tweaked just so to use a basic form of Legimency to put the wish to go into any magical brain.

The runes and arithmancy following weren’t as simple anymore. The Fidelus wasn’t included though. Hermione hadn’t figured out how to include it in there to work properly. If added the Fidelus made the ward system unstable and though she was powerful enough to counter the effects, she didn’t want to risk it. She didn’t want to put her faith in something that could fall down like a card house in a breeze just because she lost her concentration. It would have given them more peace of mind but as her father liked to say: you win some, you lose some.

She sneezed, her magic surging through her veins and then ebbed away again. Panic was slowly building inside of her. The witch knew that disabling some of the spells would maybe cause a chain reaction she needed at least a day to calculate. But something told her she hadn’t got the time. And some wards were better than none. A howl roared alongside the wind, causing the hair at the back of her neck to stand on end. She hoped Dean got Seamus safely to Poppy.

Pushing away distracting thoughts, she concentrated again on the long binding of runes and numbers written neatly on the pages. Quickly calculating the risk in her head, she sighed. Keeping her wards intact against other witches and wizards would need a too high flow of steady magic. She wasn’t sure if she would be capable of it. Her expedition with Dean took a lot out of her and now coming down with a cold… 

The witch knew she was strong, her magical core a massive well of energy. But she couldn’t do anything if the cold had a too high impact on it, if her magical core was blocked by the viruses. She couldn’t guarantee that her wards would hold. Sighing, the conclusion already danced in the forefront of her mind. She needed to disable most spells concerning other humans. Particularly witches and wizards. If her magic started to fluctuate, it wouldn’t be able to hold against other magical cores that advanced. She felt safe to say that the wolves were another matter. Though magical as well, their abilities were dormant so far from the full moon. 

A second later she made her decision, pulling her wand out of her hair where she secured it to hold the large tome. Taking a deep breath she closed her eyes, feeling along the seams of her warding system, tweaking here and there to check the stability, she got to work. Not only keeping the warding up but also pulling up the magic to unchain a few of the bindings took more out of her than she first thought.

When she came up again - out of her mind - she blinked, feeling dizziness and nausea coursing through her veins and stomach. Her head sank down between her knees and she started to breath, counting her in- and exhales like Seamus taught her. Godric bless him, she thought and remembered a time when all she could do when panic overwhelmed her was flee into a closed off room and hiding there until her blood pressure was back to normal. It wasn’t effective or convenient. Not to talk about the humiliation she would have felt if someone found her. A panicked Hermione wasn’t a good sign and she was an idol and the strong shoulder for longer than she could think back.

The nausea slowly ebbed away and in its wake tiredness and the pounding headache that vanished only recently came back full force. She wasn’t able to make it back to her bedroom and instead laid more comfortably down on her sofa. Before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

\------

Giving up entered his mind more than once. True, he was a strong man. Determined. Single-minded when the need arose. And powerful. Many of his brethren envied him for the blood coursing through his veins - or at least for the strength of his magical core. He wasn’t ambitious enough to really make use of it. His father taught him to play his cards close to the chest and he himself thought that being underestimated by some stupid followers or overlooked by the more clever ones was just the way he wanted it to be. 

Especially after his second stay in Azkaban. Something changed him then. Made him second guess his beliefs. Not his actions, though. His grandfather told him to always live with the consequences of his actions. The lives he took, the pain he dealt out and received - all of these things made him into the man he was now. He wasn’t sure yet if he or even his family would be proud of the man he became.

His mother would probably weep if she could see him. Mangled, scars crossing his skin, out of his mind and still brilliant at the same time. Potential he never thought he had, but his mother believed in dearly, gone to waste. Bitterness joined his tingling limbs and made him swallow hard. His stomach churned painfully. He was aware enough to know that it was a mixture of failure, the strength it took him to go on and disappointment letting him feel this way.

And maybe, if he would let himself sink into the snow, let the storm swallow him whole, he would find himself in front of his mother again. She would probably chastise him for his actions and decisions but in the end she would envelop him in her arms. He would place his chin atop her head of black, wild curls because she was just that small. His nose picked up her scent - lavender and something sharp that was distinctively her. 

He shook his head and felt himself sink onto his knees. Closing his eyes, he pulled up his walls, drowned out the roaring winds, the biting ice on his face and hands. In his mindscape he saw his magical core. It was still bright, still intact, but so small that he could probably hold it in both his hands. 

Go on, he demanded of himself but couldn’t fight the part of him that just wanted everything to end. His lungs hurt from the cold. His ribcage was bruised and every intake filled him with pain. His feet though secured in boots made for this weather couldn’t keep them warm. Not when everything else of him was freezing cold. 

Anger suddenly pulsed through him, called on him to not give up. To not let himself be weak and take the easy way out. He didn’t know where it came from but it felt like himself and an extrinsic influence he could dismiss without a second thought. Securing his scarf again around his face and taking a breath as deep as possible he pushed himself up. Just a bit longer, he told himself but couldn’t explain why he even bothered.

What would await him if he survived? He was excluded from the Death Eaters. His betrayal - his illness as he had dubbed it - was finally out in the open. He took Voldemort’s torture and his decree to kill him on sight with a head held high. Just as his grandfather told him.

But where did it leave him? He had family. Cousins and second cousins, some magical, some Muggle. But could he live with himself after everything he did because he thought it right at one point in time? 

Musings like that wouldn’t find him shelter, he told himself angrily and pushed onward. Onward to what, he didn’t know.

\------

By the time she woke up night had already fallen. Resting did her some good. As did the shower she took after starting her meal. She emerged feeling better and a swish with her wand told her the fever had gone down. To be sure she closed her eyes a moment and searched for the place where her magical core resided. It was still pulsing instead of calm, but the flow was steady enough. 

Her emotions were running wild though. And just because she threw a glance at the calendar hanging on her fridge. The 30th of October. Hermione cringed thinking about all the things that the once holy feast brought her. Brought for everyone she once held dear. Harry and Ron said their last goodbye on that day. Harry lost his parents, Sirius and Remus their best friend. And the Marauders learned what betrayal really meant. The young witch herself - she was tortured a second time. On Halloween. And couldn’t save her boys. The date hung like a sword of Damocles above her head.

Normally she would drink herself stupid enough to forget but not enough to lose control. Dean would find her buried in a Quidditch shirt of Harry’s and a bright orange blanket wrapped around her. He would pull her out of the mess she would make. A mess that to her was everything but. It was a neatly assorted pile of photos and letters and memories. Of what ifs and whens and maybes. 

On the next day - somber, sad and broken - she would tell him that everyone had their coping mechanism and hers was just a bit extreme. He would nod and let it slide. In the last years they built another routine out of it. This year, though.

Dean wouldn’t be around to pull together her broken life. He wouldn’t hold her in her sleep and tell her that Seamus wished for her to spend the time with them. And she would… probably drink herself stupid enough to forget but not to lose control. 

Hermione - after letting the young wizard go - finally realized how alone she really was. Cabin fever wasn’t what she was afraid of. She wasn’t afraid of the memories either. At least in them she could be with Ron and Harry again, eating pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs and sugar quills. She was afraid of what would come afterwards. 

She never told Dean but having him around on the first of November helped. A lot. Something told her he wouldn’t be around. 

Hermione sighed and shook her head. It wouldn’t do to start depressing her now when there were so many things to do before this day she wished would be erased from calendars and the human memory altogether. And she definitely wished for all the things that happened on Halloween to never have happened.

“Come on, Granger.” She muttered to herself and half an hour later - after cleaning the dishes and enjoying the fulfillment of a warm soup in her tummy, she took her research and the needed books and made herself comfortable on the fur in front of the roaring fire. 

Hours past without her notice while she tried again - like a hundred and more times before - to find a way to finally end the monster that called itself Voldemort. Everything she got so far were empty leads and insane theories. It seemed that magic and nature did everything in their power to erase the wizarding world once and for all. Because that was where they were headed. Apart from the Muggleborn killing and the half-blood enslaving, the inbreeding would lead to a generation of squibs. To mental illness and physical deformation. 

Maybe the utopy that scared her the most was a bit extreme as well. There still was the magical community in the US. Though the last reports she read were suggesting that most of the magic people living in North America weren’t too opposed to Voldemort’s ideas. She could yell and curse and insult them, but she knew it wouldn’t serve anyone and just make her lose hope she barely had.

Tiredness and the returning feverish feeling let her stop late in the night. Hermione didn’t stop to clean up her research and just - like a sleepwalker - ended up face down in her bed. Maybe, her last conscious thought was, she overestimated her immune system.

\------

In the distance - and he felt like his common sense finally left him - he saw light. Barely through the thick storm, but there. And with it he felt a new hope raising in his chest, warming him to the tips of his fingers. Something pulled him to it like the moth to the light. He felt like an insect anyway and the mental comparison didn’t feel too off.

He stumbled again because he couldn’t coordinate his feet correctly anymore. His nose was burning, his skin crawling and a part of him knew that the freezing started to eat away at him. He thought it would have began sooner.

Under his breath - the bit he could spare - he counted his steps to concentrate on not slipping, on not giving up when help was so close. Howling caused him to stop short. There, just below the light he could make out shadows. Reappearing shadows. 

A shudder, not from the cold, raced down his spine. He had to think and fast. Though the storm hadn’t eased up a bit, he sure as hell knew that wolves - their natural habitat this country and this weather - could still make out his scent. Especially because blood clung to parts of him like a second skin. Concentrating he felt that one wound was bleeding still, too.

He marched onward, his eyes singling in on the light. Slowly, like a lifeline appearing in the mist, he could make out a hut. Its windows and doors seemed to be snowbound. Cursing softly, he changed his direction. Maybe the wind could cover his tracks at least until he could find an entrance. He would worry about the inhabitants later. His first priority was himself. It made him feel better that he could still put effort into himself. Maybe he was redeemable in his own eyes. That had to be enough for the moment.

Behind the hut he soon saw a few trees. If someone could call them that. Their stem were thin, their base covered in snow. Twigs and branches seemed to be broken off, their remains scattered on the ground under snow or carried away in the wind. Maybe he could find a bit of safety beneath them. It was worth a shot.

His feet dragged but he grit his teeth, ignored all the pain and guilt and despair clouding his eyes and mind. When he reached the small assembling of trees he rested a short moment against one. His breath still rattled, the wet sound far more recognizable than before. His knees were barely able to hold him up. 

Hurry, something whispered and it was his only warning when suddenly a howl pierced the air behind him. Turning around, eyes wide he only got a second to roll out of the way. The wolf - a massive beast with grey and white fur - collided with his shoulder, letting him stumble painfully against the tree and sink down into the snow dazed.

The growling was only a few feet away and he scrambled as fast as his beaten body could back to his feet. He looked around and found himself fixed with eyes far too intelligent for any animal. He knew who was responsible for this abomination.

“Greyback”, he muttered hatefully. He slowly moved, careful where he put his feet. A part of him was astonished that he still had the ability to move with such agility when he was at the end of his strength. Maybe the adrenaline pulsing through him helped him enough to concentrate. That or a more primitive part of him took over.

The hut was at his back and he made sure to circle enough that he could watch out of the corner of his eyes for an entrance. It was a risk he was willing to take. It would put more distance between himself and safety but his logic taking over made clear that it was his only chance if he didn’t want to end as wolf-food.

There, he thought excitedly. He didn’t move, though. His eyes held the wolf’s for a moment longer, trying to frighten it with his own dominance. Maybe he should have listened to Professor Grubby-Plank because the wolf picked up the growling again - more menacing than before. It yipped and he knew this was his last chance.

With energy he didn’t know he still had he sprinted, caught himself when he was close to slipping on the ice hidden beneath the snow. He stretched a hand forward, a simple fire spell entering his mind. The snow before the door evaporated in a hot fog, burning his cheeks when he ran through it. 

He wasn’t fast enough though. He felt a sharp pain running through his leg where the wolf got to him. The sudden hindrance to move - the animal was exceptionally strong - propelled him forward and right through the door. 

Turning on his back he watched the wolf let go only to prepare to jump him. He closed his eyes, ironical words filtering into his panicked mind:

Just as you decided you wanted to live….

But the wolf never reached him. Instead it yelped and sprinted away. 

He was too surprised to react, his brain too tired to understand what just happened. Instead he leaned back and knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello lovely people. And here is the second part. Thank you for the follows/favorits and reviews. They mean the world!
> 
> WARNING: It countains smut. It isn't really graphic (or really good, meeh), but it's there.
> 
> Prompt words:
> 
> "Antonin Dolohov, Pumpkins, Hermione Granger, "You can't live off whiskey and candy"
> 
> #betalove: A huge thank you to Gryffinkitty and kabg01. For their support, encouraging words and honesty.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

She knew it was a dream because the pain filled cries came from a younger self. Her younger self. She watched her, writhing on the ground. She shouldn't feel ashamed but seeing her younger self piss herself in pain, her hair sticky with her own vomit and blood made her feel it nonetheless. Maybe an even older self of her would be proud that she survived the cuts. The Cruciatus. The whip. But the Hermione now, watching herself being tortured was ashamed. Ashamed because they took her dignity away, made her appear as nothing more than an animal. They even made jokes, the young witch remembers.

The torture didn't take up a lot of her dream, though. Not like it otherwise did. And she knew this dream inside and out. She knew the exact sequence of events, knew who and when entered the "celebration" of finding the mudblood. Who put her in her place.

But not this time. This time the dream shifted and she tasted the texture shift however that was possible. She didn't see only herself anymore.

"Dolohov." That snake-like voice she would recognize everywhere. And suddenly he was in front of her. She shuddered, tried to back away as sudden fear propelled her flight or fight instincts forward. But she didn't feel her limbs move, didn't feel her muscles flex in reflex.

Before she could scream in terror, another person entered her view. He was large in comparison to her. Though, the detached part of her observed, he was probably just average in height. His shoulders were pulled back, his head held high and she marveled at his pride. And she wanted to snort at his stupidity. He didn't bow, didn't address the monster called Voldemort with the respect she saw many followers display.

"Take her away and clean her up. She should be prepared for tonight." Voldemort demanded, his blood red eyes probably singling in on the younger Hermione twitching on the floor behind Dolohov.

"Yes, my Lord." The man answered, his voice heavily accented. Hermione couldn't remember if it was his normal tone or if it was influenced by things she couldn't even begin to understand.

Without her own doing she was following the man, watched fascinated and in shock how he not used his wand to levitate her but knelt down and lifted her battered body without batting an eyelash. The background was filled with whispering, with shocked murmurs. But Hermione couldn't stay and find out what was happening, if it was normal behavior for Dolohov or not because she was pulled along with him, if she wanted to or not.

They flashed into a chamber. A bed stood in one corner, a simple desk and chair in the other. Dolohov placed her body down on the bed. Hermione moved closer, watched him while he cleaned her, careful to not disturb her in her comatose state. He dressed her wounds with practiced ease.

Suddenly he turned away and stormed over to the other corner. He slid down, his hands buried in his hair. He pulled at his strands and by the look of it it seemed painful.

"What are you doing…" He muttered angrily, his eyes erratically flittered from her younger self to the door.

"Get a grip. What do you think you are doing…" Hermione wasn't sure but she got the impression he was battling with himself. She asked herself what was going on. A gasp pulled both of them out of their thoughts. Dolohov pushed himself up in a hurry and moved with elegance she hadn't expected him to be cable of to his bed. Hermione herself couldn't remember this situation, couldn't remember being awake or even being taken care of. The drama was probably too much to deal with for her malnourished and beaten body and mind.

"Don't move." Dolohov grunted and pushed her younger self down into the bed. If Hermione could, she would have snorted. Dealing with victims of torture wasn't his strong suit. Just to prove that thought the younger Hermione tried to scurry away from the man, but her wounds were too severe and her muscles too ripped to support her. Dolohov cursed and turned away again, only returning seconds later with a flask in his hand.

"Drink this. It'll help you." He commanded more than explained and the younger Hermione couldn't look more like a doe in the headlights. She shook her head, clamped her mouth shut until her lips were as pale as her cheeks.

"Don't be stupid, girl. I won't kill you. If I had wanted to, I wouldn't have risked my life carrying you here instead of just handling you like the people out there wanted me to." He sounded frustrated. Angry even. Maybe, the older Hermione thought, the severity of his actions finally caught up to him.

When her younger self still declined the flask, going so far as to turn her head away when he approached her, he growled loudly and with a biting tone exclaimed:

"You will obey me." Tears started to stream down her cheeks, the dark brown of her eyes becoming watery and lighter. Dolohov sighed, one of his hands going through his unruly hair. The older Hermione watched how he took a deep breath, eyes closed. Just like she did when she was trying to deal with Harry and Ron's stupidity.

"Hermione…" He said and a sudden shudder run down older Hermione's spine. The way he tasted her name while uttering it, the syllables perfectly aligned though spoken with a thick accent awoke something in her she was too afraid and distracted to name.

"I'll get you out of here. We'll make it look like one of the younger Death Eaters betraying us and taking you with him. You'll be safe from them. And from me." The last part took older Hermione by surprise. What did he mean by that?

She quickly thought, as excited as she seldom was these days. One possibility could be that he knew he was unstable. That his sudden caring side could turn against her in the blink of an eye and he would hurt her. Schizophrenia would be the natural response of the mind to trauma. And she wasn't stupid enough to think that Dolohov lead a life of sunshine and flowers.

The other possibility opened a whole closet of what ifs for her. She shied away from it, only for her logical side to take over. Maybe he isn't as convinced of this ghastly cause. Maybe he would have to act against his believes if he kept you here. Had to prove himself by torturing you especially because he carried you.

Before she could spin that thought to its full potential, a raspy, broken voice - sounding childlike and so forlorn - pulled her out of her musings. The older Hermione wanted to be deaf in that moment. She prided herself for being strong, for not breaking in the face of danger. But that one sound, that one word showed Dolohov a very different story. Showed him how she really felt.

"Ok…" But the Death Eater didn't comment. He instead knelt down, a gesture that put Hermione so far out of her depth that she was frozen. Carefully, he lifted her head and placed the vial carefully against her lips.

"It will make you sleep. When you wake up, you'll be back with your friends." Uncomfortable, as if she was intruding on two strangers, she watched the way her younger self and Dolohov locked eyes. It seemed to her as if a whole conversation took place in that one moment.

Suddenly darkness surrounded her and the scene and everything else bled away into her mind.  
______  
At first the noise was far away. Just a background sound in the roaring storm. But it was demanding her to listen. To carefully pay attention. She wasn't sure if it was from inside of her - the feelings and impressions of the dream carrying over - or if something was making this awful sound.

Suddenly wide awake she recognized the noise. It brushed away the last shreds of sleep that wanted to cling to her. She could pick out her own ward alarm everywhere. Stumbling to her feet and throwing on her robe, she snatched her wand. It spewed some golden sparks as if to caution her about her own magical energy.

Hermione took a deep breath, tried to calm her fast beating heart. It just needed a little push for her logical mind to come to the forefront. Realization came soon that her magical core was pulsing like it never did before. The magic swelled through her in waves, pouring from her pores and she felt it eliminate the last remains of her cold. How that was even possible when the virus assimilated to her magic she couldn't start to comprehend.

Energy sparked at her fingertips, made her hair flutter like it was electrified. Hermione waved her wand once and shuddered at the sudden silence. She had expected to hear the intruder or even the wolves inside her cabin. If she was honest she had been afraid that disabling some of the wards would cause the whole system to shut down. But it didn't seem like it. The alarm wouldn't have sounded.

Slowly and carefully she walked to her bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. When she moved in she had memorized the creaking floorboards and was thankful for her meticulous nature.

Hermione used her foot to push the door open wider. Leaning forward a bit, she tried to see beneath the small space visible through the gap. Cursing softly she felt the cold air sweeping through it and immediately knew that something or someone broke into her hut.

Pressing a hand to her heart she prepared herself as good as possible. All the training, all the maneuvers she took part in, all the mental preparation. It came to mind so easily. But Hermione wasn't naive and all of this could mean nothing if just the wrong person stumbled across her hiding place.

She shook away those thoughts. She had to concentrate and it wouldn't help to start her own self-fulfilling prophecies. She was on the warpath when it came to them.

Brandishing her wand in front of her, muttering spells to protect her magical core against intrusion and steeling her mind with the Occlumency she taught herself, she took a first tentative step towards the gap of her door. Hermione was confused that she didn't hear any shuffling or any other sound that would indicate an intruder. She didn't let her guard down, though and in a flurry of movement stepped out of her bedroom.

Strategically, she had half placed herself behind the commode standing just outside her door. She realized only seconds later that she didn't have to be so careful.

The intruder - who ever he was - lay sprawled out, snow covering his legs barely laying inside her hut and with that inside her wards.

Throwing caution to the wind, she ran forward. A part of her cursed her too caring nature, her nurturing side, but she could easily ignore it when the stench of blood and dirt reached her nose.

Hermione didn't forget though that she was a witch and that at least taking minor precaution could tip the coin to one side or the other. Heads you die, tails you live.

She let herself sink down to her knees, felt his pulse. Not dead. Suddenly a bony hand wrapped around her wrist, the grip stronger than she would have expected.

"Help me…" He rasped, his eyes searching for her face and fell unconscious again before he could comprehend who was with him. Hermione worried her bottom lip. She should check his mind, make sure that he wasn't someone with dangerous intend in his thoughts. But something made her stop before she even started contemplating it. There was something that told her to do something she couldn't bring herself to do for anyone but Dean, Seamus and a few others - trust.

She swished her wand, though, effectively levitating the man inside her hut and with a wave of her free hand closed the door. She felt more than heard the wards sliding fully back into place. Fascination and curiosity battled for her full attention why that would happen but she pushed both back and fixed instead the man with both eyes.

His body looked more dead than alive. Blood was trickling in thick droplets down his leg and onto her floorboards. His clothes were stiff from the ice coating it. But it was already beginning to melt. Just like the ice sticking to his hair and his hands. She saw the first signs of freezing.

Contemplating that he probably walked through the storm for quite some time for him to be in this condition she had to act fast otherwise he would lose his fingers. Looking closely she added his nose and a part of his cheek, too.

Without a second thought she waved her free hand again and out of her bathroom steam started to crawl into the corridor. Hermione transported the unconscious man into the bathroom and placed him gently down on the thick rug in front of her tub. Mindful of his privacy she undressed him and just left his boxer shorts on his person.

He smelled even more awful than he did dressed. Urine, sweat and the certain smell of illness mixed together into a nauseating odor. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stop herself from vomiting.

You've had worse, girl. She reprimanded herself and used three different cleaning spells to at least vanish most of the dirt out of his boxer shorts. Hermione checked with a hand the temperature of the water. She had to make sure that it wasn't too hot or the damage already done to his beaten body could get worse.

To her the water felt luke warm at most, but when she levitated the man into the tube he hissed. She watched him a moment longer - maybe he would awake - but it seemed his exhaustion and his bad condition kept him in his comatose state.

Hermione knelt back when she was sure he wouldn't slip further into the water and drown. Chewing her bottom lip, she contemplated her next steps. Of course she knew charms to wash dishes by themselves and she could probably tweak the spell enough to work for a human as well. But she didn't want to risk agitating his already painful looking skin.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. With a snapping of her fingers two washcloths - soft and pink - appeared in her outstretched hand. She placed them into her lap and snapped latex gloves on her hands. It wouldn't do to aggravate his obvious wounds with her own bacterias.

It felt uncomfortable to wash someone she didn't even know. Her cheeks clouded with a dusty pink and she couldn't stop herself from chewing her lip in acknowledgement when she saw how well built he was underneath all these bruises and wounds. Quickly thinking, she decided she would avoid that topic if he asked about it when he woke up. She set to work.

And scrambled back a second later. The Dark Mark - or what once was the Dark Mark - stood stark against his pale skin. Her heartbeat in her throat and for a moment she felt like she was suffocating. Then she relaxed. He was unconsciousness and in dire need of medical attention. Hermione cast a quick charm and choked when she saw his health chart. It just confirmed her observations. And it wouldn't do to think about morally accurate philosophy now. Help or not. And that was a choice she always stick to.

For good measure though she charmed him with a lighter form of a stunner. It wouldn't affect his organs, just stop his muscles enough that she had time to react to any sudden attack.

Hermione took a deep breath and knelt down next to the tube again. Her eyes automatically singled in on the Dark Mark. It was mangled beyond recognition. The flesh was burned black, blood seeping out of the few cracks. She only really knew it was the Dark Mark because she had seen it so often, studied it too much.

The witch knew that she had to erase it. It would make any attempt at helping the man pointless. Voldemort was a genius when it came to things like that. She could recognize that. And he would continue to torture this man as long as his magic resided in the remains of the mark. Maybe even going so far as to undo everything she had to do to make sure the man survived.

But first steps first. Getting him cleaned up. And dressed. Though warm, even the smallest cold could bring him over the brink into death's arm. She wasn't sure he would greet it like an old friend.  
______  
Sighing she changed the bathing water for the third time. Hermione made sure to heat it every time a bit more. Color was slowly seeping back into the man's skin, but it still looked deathly pale to her. He was clean now, though and she had a good look at the injuries peppering his body.

The wound on his leg looked like it needed to be inspected first. The blood flow had stopped, but the veins surrounding the bite shimmered purple and blue through the skin. It appeared to be translucent.

There were a few cuts and the skin around his ribcage was purple and blue as well. She would check his lungs for further damage.

Her legs began to cramp after her concentration wasn't fully placed on her intruder anymore. Hermione pulled herself up, a sigh leaving her when pins and needles started to race along her limbs. She bowed her back backwards and forward, then swished her hand to levitate the man out of the tube. Tweaking her magic, he was soon dry and clothed in a bathrobe.

She was worried because he hadn't shown any sign of being close to consciousness. Biting her lip and transporting him to her big sofa she hoped that nothing was wrong with his head. A concussion? She wished with everything within her that that wasn't the case.

Sure, she could heal it, but using magic close to the brain was always risky. Especially if his magical core would reject hers. Taking a deep breath, Hermione decided that she would go down that road when she had to. The adrenalin that dominated her actions slowly ebbed away. The silence around them allowed her to hear him breath.

His inhales were deep and even, his exhales not as ill sounding as before. A small relief. Her eyes closed and her senses stretched to full capacity. Pushing aside the noises from outside, the sounds of her own body, the tendrils of her magic started coiling around her hands. She let them hover just above his chest.

On her command it slithered down onto his skin. In her mind's eye she saw the way her energy seeped into his pores. Hermione was confused why she didn't feel a barrier or a wall surrounding his magic - something to stop intrusion, but waved it away remembering his condition.

He probably couldn't defend himself at the moment. Suddenly her magic started purring like she remembered Crooks did when a belly scrub was exceptionally good. The whisper of it shuddered through her own body, the sound warm and soft in her ears. Her magic merged out of her control with the energy of the man before her.

Hermione gasped but kept the connection intact. She wasn't sure if she could even detached herself from him. She wasn't sure if she wanted to because with the purring came calmness she hadn't felt in years. Came longing and a strange affection that made her want to shut down any conscious thought.

She was pulled forward onto her knees. To not fall face first onto him, she braced her hands in front of her, her fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arm.

The feeling intensified with touching him. Electricity was racing through her veins straight to her magical core. It pulsed violently, making her gasp in wonder and fear. In response the man before her sighed, his upper body jerking upwards only to fall back again a second later. She wasn't sure if it was in pain or relief.

Hermione shook her head, her senses overloaded by her mind's impressions and the signals her body send along with it. She pried her eyes open and for the first time couldn't take them off of the man laying in front of her.

His face was hidden behind a thick dark beard. Impressive eyebrows and a head of long-ish curly hair dominated his face. There was something familiar, though. She wasn't sure if she remembered it from a dream or if she met him before. Without a conscious thought her hand went through his wet hair, pushed it away from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, forming slits.

He didn't seem to see her though.

It all happened so fast she wasn't sure if it really was her decision to forgo her caution or not. She felt a bit possessed and utterly overwhelmed. Her heart and mind longed for balance, for a moment of quiet with just herself. But something else - and she could make out her magic - wanted her to stay. Wanted her to do everything in her power to heal this man.

So instead of pulling away, giving into her basic urge to run away, she started muttering under her breath, spells and charms she knew and surprisingly enough a few she didn't know. A light slowly started to emerge from underneath her hand, vibrated warm and soft against the tips of her fingers. It spread like thick honey over his skin. At first she thought it was running along his blood vessels. On further inspection she saw it flowing along other veins. Hermione blinked.

It seemed to crawl along the veins leading to his magical core. Fear overtook her wonderment. She never heard or read about anything like that - only that it could cause death, for both parties involved. Hermione wanted to stop, pull herself away. The tension rising within her made her breath fasten, her heart quicken its path.

She heard more than felt it when her magic flowed into his core. Her own voice - far away and like it was under water - pierced through her confusion in a loud scream. She wasn't feeling pain.

But her consciousness was leaving her, the pull too strong. She felt herself being swallowed along with her magic. Then she knew no more.  
______  
His pounding head was the only pain he felt when he woke up. Otherwise, and he marveled at it, he felt fine. Invigorated like he hadn't felt in years. And a lot younger. His eyes started to adjust to the dim light. The embers in the hearth were the only source of light. He wasn't sure where he was until he moved his leg. It wasn't a sharp pain traveling along his nerves. Instead it was just a minor uncomfortable feeling - like an aching after overdoing it while training.

He tried to use his arm to push himself up. Years of being holed up and afterwards in constant hiding made him paranoid to some degree. And being in a foreign environment, suddenly fully healed wouldn't assure him even a little bit.

He couldn't use his arm, though. Something heavy was laying on it, making it impossible to move. His eyes singled in on the person. A wild head of curls was the first thing he saw. The silhouette against the dim light was all he really needed to put two and two together.

Next to him, fast asleep and seemingly not going to wake up was Hermione Granger. The girl he… couldn't describe his bond to. A nervous flutter spread nausea through his stomach. He gulped.

He took another look around, and not far from him found a few candles. Contemplating if using his magic now after coming back from the brink of death was really a good idea, he decided that it was his only possibility. He closed his eyes and took a breath - relief filling him when he felt no hindrance while doing so. She even repaired his lung damage from years in Azkaban…

With a wave of his free hand the candles ignited, their small flames hungrily consuming wax and air. He scoffed when he saw the lit pumpkin beneath it, its carved face painfully crooked and scary to look at. Such a mundane decoration for someone who was hiding the last few years, he thought to himself. Maybe, his consciousness muttered back, she needed some comfort. He shook his head and pushed the thoughts away. Too random to really be helpful to figure out what to do. It gave him a sense for the date though. Halloween was approaching, he gathered.

A soft sigh next to him pulled his attention back to the girl beside him. He corrected himself. She wasn't a girl. Biologically, mentally and psychologically she had grown into a woman far too soon. Of that he was sure.

He closed his eyes again, aware that his magic and consciousness urged him to touch her, to gather her up in his arms and just enjoy her closeness. A heavy breath parted his chapped lips. This stupid urge was the reason why he was pushed into the snowstorm, tortured and beaten before that to begin with.

It all started with a curse. With a stupid curse he threw at her when she hadn't meant anything else to him than a hindrance to further his Lord's goals. But that changed when the feedback his magic send him made him breathless in pain. Just as she probably was when the curse took effect. He felt as if his own chest was cut open, like his own blood was flowing too fast out of an imaginary wound.

In that moment he realised, his magic and consciousness bound him to her. Maybe it was punishment for all his evil deeds back then. It was ironic, wasn't it. Looking at her now he couldn't feel of it as a punishment. Quite the opposite.

Sighing, he slowly started to raise his free hand, a levitation spell whispered from his lips. He was afraid to touch her and wanted to badly at the same time. But he needed to figure himself out first, had to make sure that he was in his right mind to explain everything to her. Salazar… he didn't even know where to begin. He hoped that the intelligence everyone saidt was her strongest suit wouldn't fail her then.

When she was floating next to the sofa, he stood up. At first he felt a bit light-headed but it soon dissolved into a warm and comfortable calmness running through his veins. He tested his limbs, then moved his hand slightly to let Hermione gently glide down on the sofa. He couldn't stop his hand from caressing her cheek. Surprisingly, she snuggled into the touch. With relief he watched her continue sleeping.

He pried his eyes away, their dark pupils taking in his surroundings. Her small hut looked homey and was filled to the brim with books, parchments and the scent of spices. A kitchen was hidden behind a corner. He raised an eyebrow seeing the potions kit in it. That would explain the scent.

Shaking his head he made his way into the corridor. The bath he found easily. With disgust he saw his clothes strewn over the floor. The remains of what once was a sturdy cloak, trousers, a thick shirt. It was tattered and dirty. He knew a few spells that could probably fix them at least a bit. The thought made him aware that he wasn't sure he still had his wand. There were many chances when he could have lost it. Sighing he gave up on it until he could ask the witch sleeping on the sofa.

With a sneer he pushed the remains of his clothes out of the way. If he was honest the face greeting him in the mirror astonished him. On the one hand he looked so different he wasn't sure he still was the same man. On the other hand, though he couldn't see much - his beard grown too long, his hair a messy mob on his head - what he could see left him in wonder. Clear eyes, a few less wrinkles around his eyes. He braced his hands against the sink, flexed his fingers and shuffled from one foot to the other. He felt healthy, strong even.

His eyes traveled to his arms. Blinking once, twice he recoiled and nearly fell backwards when he stumbled over his tattered clothes. Tentatively he reached his right hand out, probed the skin of his left underarm with cautious fingertips. The Dark Mark. Gone. His skin smooth as if he never had one. He couldn't wrap his mind around it for the next minute, had to sit down on the tub. His breath left his nose in sharp inhales and exhales.

He didn't care that his hands were shaking when he would have felt disgusted in every other situation. But this… Freedom. He was free. A mistake he made and lived with for the past decades of his life just erased. What had the witch done!

It was a miracle. She was a miracle. He couldn't even start to grasp how he would ever thank her. Leaning forward he let his head fall into his open hands. He felt like crying but no tear left his eyes. A part of him was thankful. The part that hated showing emotions, that sometimes hated feeling at all. He let his fingers glide into his hair and pulled at the strands to get himself under control again.

With a sigh he pushed himself up and stood in front of the mirror. He needed to get his hair cut. His beard too. Closing his eyes he concentrated on his magic, felt it pulsing in his veins. A moment later dark strands brushed his bare shoulders, fell onto his feet. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the changes more clearly. He didn't look like a twenty year old Adonis. But the years added to his normal age had vanished. Looking into himself he felt lighter as well - as if stress, torture and all the evil deeds he committed never happened, never left a stain on his soul.

His hand scratched at his chin, drew along the sharp contours of his face. It felt good to be himself again. He hadn't been for a long while. With a wave of his hand his cut off hair evaporated into dark fog, then he left the bathroom. Though it wasn't cold in the hut, he needed something to dress himself with. He wasn't uncomfortable with himself but something told him their talk - and he was sure they would talk and probably shout a lot too - couldn't take place with him dressed in boxer shorts only. Though, he had to admit, the thought held some humor.

A slightly ajar door caught his interest. He listened closely for any sign that the witch was awake yet but it seemed she was still fast asleep. With soft steps he made his way to the door and opened it with a gentle push. It creaked and he cursed under his breath. His muscles freezed and he stood stock still for a moment. Apart from a soft groan he didn't hear any other sound that would point to the witch rising. He thanked his luck for that. He couldn't face her. Not yet.

Even though he thought his quest for clothes would be hopeless, he started for the wardrobe and searched it for anything he could wear. Curiously enough he didn't have to look long. He found a pair of sweatpants he could transform easily. But no shirt. He wasn't the type of man that could pull off any color, except maybe black. He snorted at his own sarcasm and he remembered the bathrobe he left in the bathroom. Pulling on the pants, making them wider and longer he wanted to leave her bedroom, but a framed picture caught his eyes.

It was of her and Salazar she was so young. Her front teeth were too big, as was her school uniform and that hair. He chuckled. His heart squeezed lightly and he pressed his free hand against his bare chest. You could already see that one day she would blossom into something more. Maybe not perfect or beautiful, but pretty. A pretty that wasn't overwhelming or false. Just honest.

One of his fingers glided along the frame and transfixed he watched the photograph move. She was laughing with a redhead - probably a Weasley - and Harry Potter. The girl seemed happy and so, so carefree. He knew that only a few years later she would be a teenager fighting a war. That she would grow up knowing loss too soon, knowing hate too soon.

Bitterness transformed his features, made his mouth pull into a hard line. He wasn't sure if it was the bond making him regret the life she had. Or if deep down he still could feel compassion.

He shook his head, wanted to brush away the heavy thoughts. Sighing he let himself fall backwards onto her bed. Her scent lingered in the air around him. Clean and sweet, with a spicy undercurrent that made him hum. His magic coiled along his muscles, made them itch to move towards her.

But he couldn't. Not yet. He needed some time to think about consequences and the best way to explain everything to her. Maybe fate had a little mercy and she already knew a bit about magical bonds and enough about magic itself to make sense about the rest.

Otherwise… well, he was at a loss to explain something he lived with for the last years after he realized what his curse set into motion. He had had the time to get comfortable with the idea, had had the time to think any and every possible outcome through. Ironically all his long nights spent playing through scenarios in his head didn't help him come up with an eloquent way to put what they had in words.

Listen closely, witch. You are mine and I am yours. Our magic wants it that way. And I don't feel like rejecting it.

Smooth, he thought sarcastically. A heavy sigh parted his lips. Frame forgotten next to him he rubbed at his face, wanted to chase away his worries that made his stomach twist. What was it about this whole situation that set him so on edge, for Salazar's sake.

He accepted their bond. If he was honest he couldn't wait to act on the pull he felt towards her. But he delayed their confrontation anyway.

The fast beat of his heart suggested fear. But it was a laughable thought at best. He wasn't afraid. Why would he be...

He gritted his teeth. If he wanted to admit it to himself or not, he was indeed worried, afraid even. Rejecting a bond wouldn't cause their bodies to implode or their existence to be ended. They wouldn't live half a life or could never be happy with anyone else. It was just an indicator that they could be good for each other, perfect even. In all regards.

And he wanted that. Wanted that commitment accepting the bond would mean. Wanted to stay with her because he never felt that good, whole or better about himself before. And deep down he wanted to leave something behind - a child continuing his line, a child he could teach all the crazy and amazing things he knew. And Salazar, he wanted a woman he could see eye to eye with. A challenging, arguing, sometimes completely mental and sometimes completely perfect woman.

He knew he couldn't have that as a Death Eater. Malfoy was a prime example. Though married and with an heir, his existence could only be pitied. That was one of the reasons why he rejected the Carrow woman. That and she was batshit crazy.

Maybe getting a glimpse of a possible future spoiled him. And maybe wanting it was fine. Pushing himself upwards into a sitting position, he steeled himself. He would fight for her if it came down to it. Fight with her, too.

Because bond aside and just remembering what he knew about her, saw in her mind when he healed her years ago, he knew they could be something. Something that could last forever.  
______  
"Dolohov!" She gasped and in a hurry of movement stood before him, only the sofa keeping them apart. In her hand he found her wand, brandished in front of her. She wasn't shivering and though surprised he couldn't find fear in her eyes. Even still disheveled looking from her sleep, she was a sight to behold. He swallowed.

"It was you?!" Hermione shook her head. Her hand was steadily pointed at him. Mentally she cursed herself. She knew that there was something familiar about him. She should have been more careful, more thorough and not forgo the search of his mind. Strangely enough she wasn't angry. Nor was she afraid. Why wasn't she?

"Hermione. Please. I won't hurt you." He rasped, his voice still slightly hoarse from disuse. It pulled her effectively out of her confusing thoughts. It felt good to hear her name fall from his lips. She shook her head to get rid of these crazy thoughts.

"Don't think I'm stupid. Just because you don't have your wand doesn't mean you can't do magic." Her eyes glinted with intelligence. Puzzlement, too.

"You have it?" He asked, a bit hopeful. She frowned.

"No, I couldn't find it in your… clothes." She answered, her hand still calmly pointed at him.

"Do you want me to swear an oath?" Dolohov changed the subject, his eyes looking from her wand to her eyes. He suppressed a groan when he saw her doe-like eyes and the way she chewed her lip in thought. A sudden epiphany seemed to run through her body because she relaxed, the hand with the wand falling down next to her. Hermione remembered then what happened when she wanted to heal him. How their magic merged, became one. She sighed.

"No… that won't be necessary." She finally muttered, a hand going through her hair. He raised an eyebrow and Hermione couldn't stop herself from marveling at this. It transformed his whole face, showing off a playfulness and approachable aura that weren't there before. She swallowed, her hand inviting him with a wave to her sofa. Hermione herself took the place near the hearth, the coffee table strategically placed between them.

She shivered again when they remained silent. His dark eyes seemed to see right through her. The witch was confused why it didn't make her uncomfortable. A sigh from him pulled her eyes towards his mouth. It looked inviting, transfixing... Surprised with herself, she looked away.

"You seem sure I won't attack you, suddenly." He muttered in observation, his hand going through his hair. Otherwise he sat slumped - like the dominant man he seemed to be - on the sofa. Without even trying he commanded attention. At least Hermione felt that way. Tension built inside her. With a deep breath she ignored it.

"That's because I know for sure now, you can't." The young witch answered, focused on the emotions rushing over his features. Her face pulled into a frown because saying it out loud made it all the more true.

"Why?" He wanted to know and Hermione swallowed.

"I didn't know it was you when I found you. I just thought you got lost in the storm and looked for shelter. Your injuries… I felt it was my fault that you were attacked by the wolves outside. They're here for me…" She didn't want to tell him too much - at least not about Dean. He didn't seem to be a Death Eater anymore - his bare left arm showing off as much, but she couldn't be sure without looking into his mind.

"When I wanted to make sure I knew all of the injuries to heal them something…" She swallowed, not sure how to explain it. "Something strange happened. Your magic and mine. It merged. Reading about it a while back I just have the feeling you can't hurt me." She punctuated her explanation with a single-shoulder shrug.

She hated how she felt - small and nervous. Hermione didn't grew out of her old life, constantly hiding and fighting, to be afraid in front of a Death Eater - former or not. Something told her though, that she wasn't shy because she was afraid. There was something else she couldn't grasp.

Her eyes focused back on the present, taking in his calm features. She frowned.

"You don't seem surprised." She muttered, confusion infusing her words with longing for knowledge and a bit of accusation. This time he shrugged. It endeared him to her. Hermione jumped back from that feeling, confused with herself. But it caught up to her and she couldn't stop herself from softening.

"Maybe we should talk. Do you care to join me?" His eyes, half-lidded and inviting, indicated for her to sit down next to him. Her body reacted before she could make a decision. In a short few steps she sat down next to him cross-legged. She gasped when she felt his hand in hers, big and strong and rough. Her magic and his were dancing across their intertwined palms. When she tried to pull away he just hold it more tightly.

"I…" He cleared his throat. "I need this to concentrate. You'll understand when I'm finished."

Hermione frowned, a battle raging inside of her. A part of her, the magical part had no objections at all and even her heart - the treacherous organ - beat a bit faster in anticipation. Her mind though, tried to calm her down. An image flashed in front of her eyes. Her dream… he could have killed her then, could have done anything he wanted. But he decided to heal her. To help her escape. To save her life. She bit her lip.

"Alright." She answered and squeezed his hand. He sighed in relief.

"This is just a theory, but evidence shows-" His eyes jumped to their joined hands, "that I accidently bound myself to you when you were only a teenager."

The air rushed out of Hermione. Her mind raced to a million questions and one, but she stayed silent. She wanted to give herself some time to think about his sentence. And she didn't want to fight. With difficulty she started to organize her thoughts, put her mind to rest to better concentrate.

"You mean when your curse cut me open from collar bone to hip?" She asked and watched him flinch. Hermione herself felt detached from that incident. It was just so long ago.

"Yes… I don't know how and I can only guess why… but I think it had and has something to do with the magic… our magic." He continued and avoided her eyes. Guilt clearly rippled across his features. She squeezed his hand.

"It was a long time ago…" Her voice quavered at the end and she didn't understand why she comforted him.

"It was." He acknowledged with a short nod.

"But it doesn't make it right. I won't say I'm sorry, though." Hermione raised an eyebrow at this. He smirked slightly, a bit arrogant. Then it faltered.

"I was taught that you deal with the consequences of your actions. You are responsible for what you do." He tried to explain, his eyes dodging hers.

"Better to be safe than sorry." She muttered and he nodded to this.

"At the time you were a hindrance. And I was still recovering from Azkaban. You triggered a violent reaction. If not muted the curse would have killed you." Dolohov explained in a sure tone. Hermione would never act like he did, but she could understand where he came from. She tried to be as open-minded as possible.

"So the curse that nearly killed me bound you to me. And me to you." Her words were a statement, not a question. Intrigued he looked to her. Hermione cleared her throat. Her free hand levitated a few logs into the hearth. She knew she just wanted to buy herself some time. Collecting her strength and courage, she fixed her eyes on his. Her cheeks flushed in a dusty pink.

"I just recognized it. That feeling. I couldn't place it. It's the feeling of a bond. Or I think it is. When I healed you, my mind was chaos. My magic urged me to heal you - a total stranger - and my logic told me to take a moment to calm myself down. And now this…" Half-heartedly she pointed to their joined hands.

"I think I couldn't feel it sooner. At first I was too young… when you healed me-" She was interrupted.

"You remember that?" He asked, wonder clouding his voice, letting it appear deeper. His eyes were intense.

"Probably not me directly. My magic did, I think. I had a dream…Anyway, I think it was just an unconscious feeling overridden by pain and fear." She took a deep breath to collect her scattered mind. She was interrupted when she felt a sudden jolt running through her veins. A gasped parted her lips, her eyes focussing on the nearly black orbs of the man next to her.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, breathless and with a pounding heart. He didn't react, just licked his lips once. Another burst of magic erupted between them, licking along their nerve endings. Dolohov shuddered next to her and closed his eyes.

"What's happening…" He groaned, pried his eyes open and felt the breath leave his lungs when another wave of magic coursed through his veins. It burned like fire, but was soothingly cool at the same time.

"I think … " Hermione swallowed thickly, out of her mind with the implication of what her magic was doing. She couldn't describe it, couldn't grasp in words what was going on.

"The bond. Do you think it…" Losing her words, she took a deep breath, felt herself move further forward, couldn't find it in herself to stop her actions. She felt his heat radiating into her every pore, could taste him on the tip of her tongue. She moaned softly, her senses overloaded with him.

When she opened her eyes again she found the older man above her and couldn't remember how they got in that position. With a sensual stroke of his fingers her eyelids fluttered. Half-lidded she felt the sparks of their magic dancing across her skin, saw its golden stars flittering across his face as well. A soft breath caressing her lips made her lean upward, capturing his lips with her own. He tasted bittersweet. Melancholy, longing and the swelling of their magic made them feel as if they were bursting at the seams.

He deepened the kiss, couldn't get enough of her scent and the movement of her tongue against his. Breathy moans left her mouth. To his ears it was pure perfection. He groaned and pulled away, the pants he found in her closet straining. Panting softly, he leaned his forehead against her cheek, taking deep inhales in the wish to breath her in.

Their magic hummed in pleasure and fulfillment. It drew them closer together on a metaphysical level until both thought that they stopped existing separately. Hermione felt like her heart was going to burst and her soul - that she thought would never be whole again after everything she went through - knitted itself together. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. She sniffed. Embarrassment coloured her cheeks in a dusty pink.

Until she felt droplets meeting her cheek and neck. Confused, she let one hand wander to Antonin's hair.

"What is it?" She inquired softly, mindful of his circumstances. She felt more in balance again, her head not filled with cotton. There was something new, though. A link that wasn't there before, threading through her magical core, heart and mind, keeping her together. Worry made her chew on her bottom lip. The man above her didn't respond, so she tried again.

"Antonin?" His name left her lips in a sigh when a strong current ran through her, making her feel as if her foundations were crumbling down and being rebuilt at the same time. He blinked, slowly, lazily when he lifted his head. His free hand, erratic, but soft caressed her cheek, the fingertips gathering the tears underneath her eye. He looked transfixed. His own tears were gone.

"Do say it again." He commanded, his voice hoarse. Hermione felt as if she would go cross-eyed if he spoke to her like this again. Her stomach curled in on itself, her limbs were tingling. The feeling was stronger than ever before, infused by his own emotions she could feel seeping into her through the new link.  
______  
BEGIN SMUT

"Antonin…" She repeated, a bit unsure. Their magic hummed between them, heated their skin and the air around them.

Suddenly the older wizard was standing above her and in a display of sheer strength pulled her to him and against his bare chest. Reflexively, Hermione wrapped her arms and legs around him. He leaned up and pressed his lips against her warm ones. She scraped her nails lightly across his skin, overwhelmed by the kiss and her physical response to it. He growled in response.

Antonin enjoyed her scent - sweet and spicy and womanly - enveloping him. Her body heat warmed him through, reaching parts inside him that he never knew were cold to begin with. Her mouth wandered to his neck, her hot tongue darting out, caressed his skin. The sharp pain penetrating his scattered mind let him concentrate and he found he loved the way her teeth left bite marks on his neck. To support her he grabbed the backside of her thighs and hoisted her higher up. The heat of her core pressed against his abdomen.

The older wizard groaned slightly as Hermione's teeth scraped his skin again. Her closeness did crazy things to his heart. It's erratic beating made his hands flex, squeezing her thighs. His hands slid upwards slightly until he could feel her heat at the tips of his fingers. Her jeans couldn't hide that she was as lost to these emotions as he was.

His magic was surging through his veins like a wild current. In his life he had enjoyed many women - he once was an attractive man and not opposed to some fun. Before Azkaban and dark tinted magic took that away. But holding her, feeling her tasting him, kissing him. It was on a whole different level and fulfilled him like nothing else could. At the same time he couldn't get enough of her.

Antonin felt his arousal coursing through him like lava. It gave him enough motivation to put half his mind on the task to carry them to her bed. He wanted to lay her out like a queen and worship her body, mind and soul. There was no question that she was his. And though it should make him afraid to be bound to another living being again, pride filled him thinking that he was hers as well.

He stumbled slightly but made sure to not let her fall. Her touches and kisses elicited growls from him and let his concentration waiver but she just felt too good. He couldn't make her stop. He didn't want her to ever.

Finally finding her bed, he carried her over to it and gently put her down. Without letting her realize that they moved out of her living room, he hovered over her, watched her fast breath push her breasts towards him, her pulse moving fast underneath her skin at her throat. The only light provided by her bedside lamp painted her in stark contrasts. Her soft curves and clear features glowed in the dim light.

The wizard leaned down, his nose traveling along her jaw, to her neck and took a deep breath. His tongue drew small circles just at her pulse point as if he tried to fill him up with her taste. Her breathy moans caressed the shell of his ear. Letting his teeth scrape along her jaw, he pulled back.

Hermione finally found Antonin's eyes. They were burning her with his desire. His breath hitched and maybe, she thought, her eyes burned him as well, made him breathless and weak. The deep frown between his brows let her realize that he was fighting with himself. That he didn't want his instincts taking over and throw caution to the wind.

Antonin couldn't grasp the whole situation and when her tongue darted out, the movement enticing his senses, to moisten her lips, he couldn't suppress a groan parting his lips. He felt that she didn't know how on edge he felt - couldn't fully understand the insanity lurking in the corners of his mind. Hermione's hands found his shoulders. A mixture of desperation and her own desire made her movements sloppy. Antonin caught her hands, though, pulled them in front of his face. He marveled at the direct contact skin on skin, watched the sparks of their magic flittering across their jointed limbs. Such feminine hands, gentle and soft, he thought adoringly.

Hermione shivered with a sigh when his lips brushed her fingertips. She didn't protest when he intertwined their hands and pushed them down into the cushion next to her head with a bit more force than necessary. In his eyes and through the link she felt him fight for control, for the calm to give this moment - they both understood its importance - the room it deserved.

Antonin shook his head slightly, wanted to detach himself enough to focus, but her scent lingered in the covers around them. It invaded his nose and made him groan deep in his throat. Memories swirled in his head, when he first met her, when he finally understood what was going on with him. He never believed he would be with her. It felt like a miracle. Her legs still around him she pulled him more against her core and tried to make him move, to find any friction to satisfy this urge burning in her mind and body.

"Lay still." Antonin commanded. His voice was rough and portrayed how on edge he felt. Hermione watched him struggle onto his knees, her legs falling away from him and then stand at the end of her bed. She could still taste his lips on her own, her pulse in her fingers and abdomen. Every conscious thought fled her as she watched him get undressed. She never thought that magic was something as physical as she momentarily experienced. Of course she felt her magic, saw it appear through and with her, but feeling that pull, that urge to become one with the man in front of her made her second guess her understanding of it.

Antonin smirked slightly when he discovered her huge dark eyes ordering him to undress fully. Instead of going with it, he pulled her forward a bit, his hands wrapped around her ankles. A small squeak escaped her and he couldn't suppress a chuckle. It seemed they didn't need words anymore because Hermione already started to unbutton her jeans. In a swift movement Antonin had her legs bare. He couldn't enjoy the view for long, because her pullover and t-shirt went next and his attention wandered.

Underneath her clothes he found her to be pale, with freckles peppered along her shoulders and a few even on her collar bone. He wanted to taste them, badly. Hermione swished her hand suddenly and the former Death Eater found himself naked in front of the witch. A laugh bubbled up out of his chest. Without a second thought he crawled onto the bed, enjoyed the way her eyes drank him in.

It seemed though that she wouldn't allow him to dominate her. He felt her hands brush against his shoulders, closed his eyes when it left behind a trail of her magic on his skin and scars. When Antonin opened his eyes again, he laid on his back with his beautiful witch straddling him. For his taste she still had too many clothes covering her, though he found the sensual knickers and plain bra endearing. Arousing. And definitely more pleasing for the eyes than anything in a racy color or real lingerie. It suited her gentle soul he felt binding his wild spirit, balancing it.

Hermione bit her lip, shy all of the sudden. Her eyes glinted with affection. Antonin used his thumb to free her bottom lip, caressed it and smiled encouragingly. Surprisingly for the older wizard she bit his thumb suddenly, her tongue darting out to soften the sharp pain, licking it sensually.

The witch herself enjoyed the view, enjoyed the power she felt straddling this man beneath her. The years after Azkaban treated him well, she saw. Probing she let her hand glide along his chest and down his stomach. His erection jumped at the gesture, pressed into her core. She groaned at the contact and Antonin blinked at the heat and wetness he felt.

It engulfed him and he closed his eyes. In a try to feel at least a bit in control he placed his hands on her hips and followed her movement when she started to rock gently above him. He groaned into the pillow next to him, his hands wandered upwards to the clasp of her bra and in a practiced fingersnap it fell open.

Antonin pried his eyes open, taking in her small breasts. The rosy buds stood to attention. He wanted to taste them, but Hermione had braced herself against his chest. Turning them around felt to him like a too great loss of view so he let her continue, fascinated by the way her breath and rocking moved her breasts just slightly.

Hermione closed her eyes, enjoyed the way his fingertips wandered down to her hipbones. Her breath hitched when Antonin's fingers wandered further down still, pushing away her knickers.

The older wizard groaned when her warmth greeted his hand. Wet and hot. So inviting. So eager. He was self-assured again when she shuddered at the contact, arching her back to give him better access. Without a conscious thought she lifted herself up a bit, circled her hips to scratch the itch the wizard could feel through their bond. His eyes traveled back and forth between his hand pleasuring her and to her face - so open with emotions and desire he couldn't get enough of the view.

Hermione bowed forward then, leaned down to press her naked chest against his. Groaning Antonin felt her perked nipples brush against him. He scooted back, pulled her with him, hands on her behind and leaned against the headboard. His hands wandered to her waist. In reaction Hermione leaned backwards as if she knew - and he felt through his link that she nearly begged - that he wanted to pleasure her a bit more.

The witch braced herself against his thighs, arched her back when Antonin pinched her clit. With baited breath she felt one of his fingers sliding to her entrance. She shuddered above him, not caring that she showed him more than any other man in her life. Antonin was transfixed by the way her breasts moved from her shaky inhale.

Leaning forward he started to place open mouth kisses along her throat, down to her collarbone and even further down to her breasts. His free hand pushed her breast up to finally pull one of her nipples into his mouth. He bit down gently. Hermione hummed and mewed and the wizard had never heard something so arousing and at the same time adorable like this before. Her hips started to circle on their own accord again.

He continued to tease her, couldn't get enough of the soft sounds leaving her mouth and the feeling of his slightly rough hands feather lightly on her heated skin. The sparks prickled along his skin and he knew that it enhanced her pleasure as well.

His eyes were drawn back to her face when she bit her lip. The link sent him different signals, but all of them pleased him nonetheless. There was desire in it and the intensity with which she felt his ministrations. Her shivering body was a sight to behold. Antonin's hand brushed down her side, his thumb stroked under her breast, over her ribs before he pulled his hand away from her sex.

A swish of his hand vanished her knickers and finally he could admire her simple - some would say plain - beauty as a whole. Hermione pushed herself up to make room for him. When she positioned him at her entrance, she slowly sunk down.

Antonin threw his head back, too overwhelmed by the feeling to really care how he sounded or looked. The lights in the whole house seemed to flicker behind his eyelids or maybe it was just a trick of his brain, the sensors firing information from one nerve to the next in quick succession. He didn't care.

When Hermione hissed he jerked his head back up, his eyes searched for the source of her discomfort.

"Everything's alright." She just whispered, kept her eyes closed. His hands flexed and he saw red marks appear on her hips. Marks he left behind. A part of him was sorry to inflict pain to her. Another - the huger part, the dominating bastard part - couldn't be more happy. Mine, it whispered in his mind. When a breathy 'yours' was his response, he groaned again.

They took their moment, enjoyed the way he fit so fully inside her, how their magic, a wild current until this moment smoothed out into a free flowing river inside of them. Antonin, who learned and practiced magic from the young age of four had never felt so powerful. So in balance.

The seconds became minutes, their warm breath filling the small space between them. The older wizard wrapped his arms around her and pulled her forward to him. They both moaned at the friction it caused. Their lips found each other without really searching and both lost themselves in each other and the taste of their love and magic. It tingled down their spines, made Hermione jerk in pleasure.

She pushed herself away from him, her hands found leverage on the headboard. Her brown eyes - such impressive eyes, he thought - found his own and she held him when she finally started to move. Her movements were soft, gentle. To Antonin it appeared as if she wanted to feel every inch of him, wanted to memorize how their magic and bodies built up to become one. He could understand the notion because he felt the same.

With care he took one of her nipples between his fingers, rolled it from one side to the other and enjoyed the way her walls were fluttering around him at the added stimulation. A throaty moan was his prize. It vibrated through her chest and he could feel it in his fingertips.

Hermione steadily increased the rocking of her hips, grinding deeper, more violently against him. He gasped, barely able to stop himself from going cross-eyed. He grabbed her hips. She laid her hands down on his shoulders. Her fingernails pierced into his skin, not caring that she caused him pain. In fact it added to his own pleasure. Suddenly she angled her hips a certain way and all Antonin could do is rasped a deep Salazar in response.

The witch responded with moans and sighs which were accompanied by the sound of their skin meeting again and again and the creaking of the bed. He felt her muscles slowly cramping around him and knew that she was close. Her head landed on his shoulder, her face pressed against his neck. She licked and bit it and Antonin couldn't stop himself from moving with her, meeting her thrust for thrust. He knew he hit the right point when her teeth sank into his shoulder.

His hand entered her hair and used it to pull her back from himself, bared her throat to him. With teeth and tongue he left his marks along her pale flesh. His tongue ran back up, tasted the sweat on her skin and his own saliva. Her walls clenched around him sharply, making him gasp in pleasure and he knew he too was close. He couldn't hold out much longer. The desire to bring her to her own fulfillment coursed through his veins. Antonin pulled her hair a bit more, a groan the response he got. Her back was curved so far back that she was nearly laid on his knees then. And he could see where their bodies met.

His fingers found her clit easily and he pushed against it hard. The nearly silent scream made him moan. He kept up his ministrations and angled himself forward to reach her breast. Licking and sucking at the nipple he waited for the perfect moment to bite down on it. When a wave of fluttering muscles around him hit him, he did just that.

And suddenly nothing counted anymore. Not their past, not their present or their future. All they could think and feel was in that bed in the middle of Siberia. All they had was themselves. And oddly enough it was all they ever needed.

END SMUT  
______  
His fingers softly traced along the elevated skin on her chest. The scar was ugly, marring her otherwise perfect skin. It was the first mark on her body he was responsible for. He found out while exploring her in the aftermath of their love making that there were many others inflicted in fights for dear life with Death Eaters and overeager half-bloods that wanted to expose, even capture her and her friends. Antonin felt sick for being jealous because of that. A part of him knew that he shouldn't be proud of the scar running along her upper body.

But he was. And he told her as much. She just smiled in response - something he hadn't counted on and found a bit crazy as well. Maybe she wasn't as sane as he thought. Pondering it, the older wizard realized that no one would have stayed sane after everything she went through.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked her after a while, watching her breath gently. She sighed, her hand swishing once. A calendar appeared above them. A date glowed golden against the parchment. The 31st of October.

"That Halloween finally is something I can celebrate." She mumbled, drowsiness and calmness making her crisp tones slurred. He thought a moment about that. At last he laid his head down on her stomach.

"Happy Halloween then."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hoped you enjoyed my take on things. I'm currently working on two other prompts - they are just soo, so good. So look out for more Death Eater / Hermione Fun!
> 
> Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Review please!


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